


Synchronicity Asides

by gyromitra



Series: FEAR!AU [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Combat Violence, FEAR!AU, Gore, How do I English?, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyromitra/pseuds/gyromitra
Summary: This is probably Spoiler!City. Little drabbles that give background to Synchronicity and won't make it into the main story because of the switched POV, other issues, or simply because they fall outside the main storyline. All original warnings potentially apply.





	1. Chapter 1

There is no peace in death, only the subtle hum of machinery saturating the darkness of his tomb where he exists suspended between nothingness and some twisted form of awareness. 

He is trapped.

He lashes out.

His claws splinter and break on the walls of his prison.

Yet sometimes he hears when she calls to him. 

And sometimes he can feel somewhere there outside the pale dimmed shine that is now nothing like before - before everything changed, before the decisions he can only regret had been made and acted upon - and he tries, tries so hard to touch the light that has been his comfort for so long as it always slips away and fades even more.

He screams.

He mourns for the time lost, the hundreds of years spent apart.

He mourns his death.

He mourns his light, the guiding warmth stolen from him.

She reaches out.

He will have his vengeance.

And in fire and stone, the world will be gone.


	2. Chapter 2

There are memories of the different times that fade and wash away in pulsating darkness that binds, foreheads pressed against each other and desperate fingers clutching for purchase in the night, words meant to ground and anchor and words meant to hurt and tear down, but above all, there is awareness of another and silent apologies and adoration and just being.

A thing of past.

Now, there are screams and ash and the smell of burning meat and plastic – black caustic smoke choking away the sky raining crimson – and howling tempest ripping apart concrete with the sheer onslaught of frenzied wind.

In the eye of the storm, he stands, falls to his knees, sinks to the rubble, and wails. Trembling fingers reach out to caress the still warm cheek and parted lips with no breath between them, smear the blood slowly sinking between cracked stones.

This is his doing. This is his failure. This is every wrong choice brought to the fruition, an inescapable outcome of the course set years in the making.

So he screams, and with each lash of the sound destruction reigns supreme.

And then, he just refuses the reality, unrelenting gale drawn inwards and crashing upon the spot, bared fangs and claws dug deep into dying flesh, ripping, tearing, rending apart and then piecing it together, until nothing of the old is left.

Nothing of the old is left when he feels burning liquid in his lungs and agony sinks into his bones and throes of dying neurons tether him and pull back behind an impenetrable curtain of his prison he thrashes against until everything stills and his fingers worn down to stumps drift lifelessly on unseen current.

The man on the ground stirs and reaches after him, red light filtering through his stretched apart fingers till the parting words between them silence to nothing.

_You are everything that I’d die for._


	3. Chapter 3

Jack wakes up to the night air settling over his skin. Cold breeze elicits unconscious shiver and his hand brushes against the crumpled sheets, the unoccupied space exacerbating uneasiness that flits around like a broken butterfly trying to futilely take flight. The static hum of the tv left on but tuned into no channel twists his stomach.

This is one of those nights, and between the both of them, it always seems they have more of those than not. Jack moves to sit on the bed, each movement calculated and deliberate, each sound reinforced – finite.

He takes few calming breaths and turns on the lamp. His scars itch, pain sparks along the discolored flesh, the feeling sympathetic in anticipation.

Jack grabs a blanket and makes his way to the doorframe. The living room is dark, illuminated only by the glow of the flickering tv and lights of the base. Curtains sway with each whisper of the wind invited by the open windows.

“Gabe,” he calls out lightly once, then again, until those eyes dart to him and then to the side. Gabriel’s fingers flex over the handgun held, still resting on the couch. Jack can feel nausea – that push away – that he can’t ignore. The few steps it takes him to close the distance feel like an eternity.

He kneels down between the other man’s legs and lets his left hand hover over, then touch, his thigh, slides it over to the wrist that instinctively tries to twitch upwards.

“Gabe,” Jack repeats again, his other hand reaching up, to the icy cheek of the man, steady even as he flinches and turns his face away. “I see you.”

His fingers meticulously force each digit clenched around the grip of the gun to relax and let go and he heaves a sigh of relief when he finally pushes the pistol off the couch to the floor.

“Gabe. I see you. Look at me.” Seconds trickle away until those eyes focus on him and he climbs the edge of the couch touching their foreheads together. “I see you.”

“I…” Gabriel blinks, the uncertainty in his gaze and the waver of his voice cut to the bone. “I’m sorry, Sunshine.”

“Stop. Not your fault,” Jack murmurs and drapes the forgotten blanket over them. “Should have woken me up,” he snatches one cigarette from the table along with a zippo from the coffee table and lights it up. He passes it to Gabriel who holds it between trembling fingers and nods with gratitude. “We’re good.”

“Yeah. We’re good,” Gabriel responds and brings the cigarette to his lips when Jack rests his face in the nook of his neck. It sounds false and yet, here they are, still alive. “We’re good.”

Time slinks away and the tension slowly drains to the rhythm of their breaths in the silence that does not need to be filled by words.


	4. Chapter 4

Sombra waits, crouched, observing from her perch, head turned to the side, not unlike a bird. No, the woman does not interest her, but the man, the man so proficient at killing her children, her precious Los Muertos, there is something ludicrously sweet about the taste of his soul and blood, the potent smell of power he leaves in his wake, that even the hunt for her brother dearest loses its luster for a second.

She wishes to scrap the meat from his bones, every little bit, and relish the sensation, slowly.

He is faster. He is stronger. Yet there is nothing exceptional enough about him to explain the allure.

He is exhausted.

So Sombra falls down to quench her thirst and he still notices her, hardly an issue as she closes in.

“Jack, what the…!” The woman does not interest her. She throws her to the side, smashing her on the wall, out of the way between herself and the morsel dangling so deliciously just before her nose. Sombra’s claws are about to reach his throat when the man relaxes for a split second, his muscles going limp, and then the butt of his rifle smashes into her face.

Sombra reels back and jumps. She wipes the blood with her fingers. Her heart beats strong and hard. The prize won with no trouble holds no merit and she circles him flexing her arms. She will rip out his tongue and gouge his eyes for this, and for her children he had killed.

“You should reconsider, girl. I will devour you,” he speaks, his lips move, but the voice does not belong to him. The pressure intensifies and reality tears itself apart around, walls falling into nothingness.

Sombra stills. The man, he is like her own but does not belong to her. No, she thinks as her smile grows wider, he belongs to Him, and Reaper stands behind the man, claws on the soldier’s throat curled possessively even as they break the skin.

The man leans back into the cruel embrace and his skin slowly turns ashen. Cold fire licks at his feet.

“Did you start playing favorites, father?” She pouts. “You could allow me a taste, after all, I’ve been a good girl,” she jests backing off slowly. The wave of anger and something else she cannot pinpoint catches her by surprise and only a chance allows her to keep her footing. “I see, Father. I won’t interfere, perhaps, but let loose your toy before you break it.”

Escaping, Sombra laughs. There is now a new game to play, and maybe, maybe, brother dearest would like to join in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One definite detail that probably won't get even mentioned in the main story is this: Jack's middle name is Percival. The part about his mother also is 'canon'. Somehow it all fits thematically.  
> The letter-number string is not random.

“The P. What’s it for?”

“What?” Jack looks at him over the colorful folder he has in his hands while pretending he does not understand the question.

“The P,” Gabriel repeats himself, neither playful nor irritated, just curious. “Jack P. Morrison.”

“One, fuck off. Percival. Two,” Jack smirks at him, “fuck off. Mother wrote her thesis on the Arthurian mythos.”

“Pull another one.”

“Seriously,” Jack throws the folder on the desk. “I got lucky, it could’ve been Galahad or Lancelot. God forbid, Lohengrin,” he rolls his eyes, and after a short pause, they both burst into loud laughter.

“You’re not shitting me, are you?”

“Would I ever, my Wounded King?” Jack crawls closer over the couch and straddles him with a predatory glint in his eyes. “Or do you prefer Blanchefleur?”

“Let’s stay with the king,” Gabriel nips at the corner of his lips and they kiss hungrily trying to melt into each other.

It will last – but not long enough – for the Wounded King’s Grail is flawed: it resurrects yet robs of the speech, and Percival, whose sword will break when needed the most, fails to heal the King.

*

TLC BLC 01 055 JPM Jackson Percival Morrison


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companion piece to Chapter 2 - the other side of the Zurich Incident. Probably a very big spoiler if you know what exactly to look for. Written as 'Stabbed' entry for Whumptober.

“The Prototype is unresponsive,” She says.

There is a song in his ears, a roar of an untempered gale – all claws and fangs, all wrath, all hoarse fury – and it cradles him on its crashing waves close to its heart.

“Kill him,” the Other She orders.

They (He and the Other) move in unison between the refracted light and the bullets, his calm and the Other’s fury. The knife freezes in the air as he sails below only to emerge with the blade buried in soft tissues of the Enemy’s bared throat.

“Kill them,” the Other growls.

“Kill them,” he repeats ripping the blade free. The refracted light shows him the way and he turns, the knife changing hands before it is claimed by the gravity. They (He and the Other) follow the path set for Them (Him and the Other).

Blood splashes on his face. It burns. A bullet clips his shoulder.

“Left, Sunshine,” the Other whispers soothingly, and he changes his trajectory accordingly so They (He and the Other) may sink Their (His and the Other’s) claws into pliant flesh of the next target.

It is a slow dance, Them (Him and the Other) between their Enemies, Their (His and the Other’s) fangs tearing apart whatever stands in Their (His and the Other’s) path.

“Deploy Reaper countermeasures,” the Other She gives a command.

White hot pain rips through his mind and Their (His and the Other’s) limbs move jerkily, not good nor fast enough, and the radiance of the refracted light dims. The Other howls.

The Other howls.

He feels something lodged in his throat. He hears the scrape of metal against the bone, hears it in vibrations, feels it, feels the blood, hot, hot, so very hot, scorching his throat from the inside.

He is drowning.

His blade rips apart the one in front of him. Their blade rips his throat in a shower of blood.

He is drowning. He is falling back, and he is falling apart without the Other. And the sky, and the sky, why is there a sky, and the sky is a storm of smoke and crimson. He smiles.

“Take me with you when you go,” he mouths, his hand straining towards the dark red orb above until it falls to rest by his side on the broken concrete.

When Subject Seventy-Six opens his eyes again, the Beast laps at his throat, needy, insistent, desperate.

“Welcome back, Sunshine.”

The words mean nothing.


End file.
